The mannequins are only playing dead

at night
the mannequins leave
    their glass prisons

         and hunt owls
   in the forest

sometimes they dance
      a slo-mo tarantella
            in a clearing

bone-white
      in the moonlight

in the morning
back behind glass
their blank looks
give nothing away

behind them
          tills open with a yawn
          and close with a sigh